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Poem
Into the buoyant blue of a summer sky
I throw my fortune and my hopes.
With wings and wonder I survey
the world above and need some time
up there before descending back to earth.

Advancing throttle up I climb, rocket
like and plumb, to check the heights 
of clouds and skill, rolling left, then 
right as in a dance, light 
with release from gravity.

Before my plane escapes my vision, too, I guide
it over a graceful arch, until fast approaching 
ground is all I see, and while succumbing
to the appetite of earth for things detached, 
roll again and again in defiance, cutting 
facets from the burnished blue.

Pushing hard to inverted flight, I see things 
from a different point of view.  Pressure 
on the stick reminds me that up is down, and 
I must concentrate to follow a horizontal path.
The Extra was made for this, I tell myself, 
and brace for more.

Throwing sticks to the corner I force a snap. In a burst 
of energy my wings become a blur. Like a wayward
child nose and tail go off track and need correction. 
The stress on joints and structure is immense, yet 
my plane obeys with no complaint, rebelling
only at my command to return wings level.

Like a metronome ticking over the rhythmic pounding
of my heart I count my way through a hammerhead:
“Throttle up and push, and, wait, and… release!
1 and 2 and roll and roll, and
1 and 2 and throttle back… rudder!”

The plane pauses in mid-air – a sentry in the sky -  then pivots
on a point. Opposite aileron keeps me in a geometric plane, 
and earthward bound once more I resume the beat:
“1 and 2 and roll: to canopy, and belly!
1 and 2 and push!”

The lines and arcs I draw through weather fair and foul
are my signature, the salient points of aerobatic discourse,
a test of nerves and steel, the embrace of fear.
Breaking through that wall, I emerge
free to explore the boundaries of my craft.

I must look beyond the attitude of pitch, roll and yaw
to see the art that I’m creating there
from the power and pull of wings through air.

Holding a precise line against the force
of Indiana winds or the vagaries of a Midwest storm, 
with sunburned lips, lack of sleep or
a thousand other faults...
ah, there is the rub.

It is no easy thing, and still I try
to reach perfection, to control the direction 
I will fly in that endless summer sky.
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